Chapter 17
Eleanor woke the next morning to the sound of birdsong, and a quick glance through the window told her that it was barely dawn. She dressed quickly and hid her pendant under the mattress – there would be few chances to wear jewellery here – before heading down to the dining hall to see about breakfast.
She'd hoped she'd be the earliest riser, as she'd always been at school, but to her annoyance she found Daniel at the breakfast table, munching at a sandwich while apparently absorbed in a book which lay open beside his plate.
"Morning," she said quietly as she took a seat opposite him, and helped herself to a roll from the platter in the middle of the table. The bread was still warm, and filled generously with crisp slices of bacon and gooey melted cheese.
Daniel glanced up at her, then turned the page of his book and continued reading without a word. She was a little irritated by his rudeness, though they hadn't had the best start.
"I'm sorry I was jumpy yesterday," she began. "I'm still adjusting to everything."
He closed the book with a heavy thud; the cover said it was Finer Details of Apothecary.
"I was not ignoring you," he said. "I was studying."
She blushed a little. "I just wanted to explain."
"It is new for all of us."
She tried again to pin down the details of his accent as he spoke; it was nothing like any of the voices she'd heard in Taraska or among the Magra, let alone in the Empire, and he appeared unable to use normal speech contractions.
"But we will learn – of each other, and this place, and our needed skills. You must be patient."
"Sorry for interrupting you," Eleanor apologised again, indicating the book. "I don't mind you reading."
He took another mouthful of his breakfast and flipped the book open again in silence, staring intently at the page.
Eleanor wondered how – or indeed whether – he'd managed to find the right place on his first attempt. Maybe looking at a random page was still preferable to talking to her. She didn't really care; she hadn't wanted to see anyone either. For a moment she'd been willing to tell him a little about Raf and her experiences over the last year, hoping to give some explanation for her behaviour, but that moment had passed. She got up and left the room quietly so as not to disturb him further, taking her roll with her to eat as she walked.
She was just chewing on her last crust when she reached the common room again, and was relieved to see no sign that Sebastien or Mikhail had stirred.
She let herself back into her room and went to look out of the window. It was a perfectly still, overcast day; perfect for a little outdoor practice. She pulled out the knife Laban had given her, which was still her favourite despite the way her Tarasanka interrogator had sliced open her face with it. As she turned it over in her fingers, she wondered why Laban had failed to stand up for her in the council yesterday. There was something frightening about the way he'd pretended not to know her, and she'd never seen fear in his eyes before; she wished she could ask him about it, but she wasn't going to try and find him before she knew her way around.
She wanted to get outside, to get moving and shake the worries from her mind, but uncertainty kept her in her room so she satisfied herself with doing headstands beside the bed.
She was disturbed a little later by a knock at the door, and went down with the other students to be fitted for their new clothes. The measurements were being taken in a small room near the dining hall, and they formed a disorderly queue outside.
The tailor was visibly taken aback when Eleanor presented herself but he quickly recovered his composure.
"I'll make you all the usual work clothes," he said as he passed the tape around her waist. "And I'll pass your measurements across to the tannery for your leathers. But what would you like for finery?"
Now it was Eleanor's turn to be surprised. "What will I need?" She'd left all her best clothes at school for a reason: she'd assumed she wouldn't have any use for them. It had proved true enough over the last year. She thought back to some of her favourite dresses which she'd left in her trunk and wondered whether this tailor – accustomed to dressing only the men of the Association – would make such beautiful clothes as the school's seamstresses. If not, she supposed she could always go back for them; she wouldn't be seen if she snuck through the forest.
"I can make you a selection," the tailor offered. "What are your favourite colours?"
"I like black," she said, then fearing that would be rather boring, added, "Or green. Whatever you think would suit me."
He nodded. "I'll see what I can do for you. Next!"
Eleanor left the room and found Daniel and Sebastien waiting in the corridor.
"Coming to the smithy?" Sebastien asked. "Or have you got enough fancy knives already?"
"I'll come," she said, not sure if she minded the tease in his voice. But certainly she'd never turn down the chance of a shiny new blade to add to her growing collection. "Do you know where it is?"
"Just across the courtyard, I think. It can't be hard to find."
"We are just waiting for Mikhail," Daniel said, and the three fell into an uneasy silence. They were relieved when Mikhail emerged a moment later, and they headed down to the courtyard together.
Even with its double doors thrown wide open to the air, the furnaces made the smithy uncomfortably hot. They were met by a short, bare-chested man with wiry grey hair who introduced himself as Harold; his blond-haired colleague was hammering away at the back of the workshop. Neither of them could have been younger than fifty, and Eleanor wondered if this was a retirement job for members of the Association who survived to enjoy any kind of retirement.
"So, what can I do for you?" Harold asked. "Do you know what you need?"
Mikhail grinned broadly. "Everything!"
Eleanor suspected she was the only one who already had truly professional weapons, and even she couldn't wait to get her hands on new ones which were to be wrought especially for her.
Harold smiled at Mikhail's obvious enthusiasm. "Show me what you've got."
Mikhail pulled out his school-issue practice weapons, which amounted to a couple of buckled throwing knives and a standard dagger.
"I'll take those for melting down if you like," Harold said. "You won't be needing them. Now, unless you've any special requests, I'll start you off with a pair of daggers – straight and curved – a basic thrower, and a hunting knife. Here, let me measure your hand."
He had a notched measuring stick, and directed Mikhail to grip it in his fist as he would hold a dagger hilt while Harold scribbled numbers on a chalk board.
"Now, your feet." He placed a board on the floor, and motioned for Mikhail to step onto it.
Mikhail watched in fascination as he made chalk marks around the edges of both boots. "Why're you measuring my feet?"
"You'll need spikes for your shoes." He stood up once he'd finished drawing the outlines and, satisfied, turned from Mikhail to the others. "Are you all in the same boat? Any more of those crappy school knives for me to recycle?"
Sebastien shot a pointed look at Eleanor as he and Daniel laid their school knives on the workbench.
"I don't have anything to melt down," she said quietly.
Harold looked straight at her, and though she took that moment to examine his face closely she saw no distaste or even surprise in his expression. For once, someone wasn't treating her like an alien. "Did you leave them in your room?" he asked. "You can bring them down later."
She shook her head. "I don't have any school knives. Only these ones." From their sheathes at her hips she brought forward the two matched throwing knives she'd bought in Taraska, then the stiletto blade and the short, straight-bladed dagger which completed the set. For reasons she couldn't quite explain, she kept Laban's knife safely in its wrist sheath; something in his expression yesterday had spooked her. If he was too scared to acknowledge her then she didn't want to risk exposing their association.
Harold raised an eyebrow. "Impressive." He picked up one of the throwing knives and turned it in his hand. "Where did you pick up this little lot?"
"I bought them from a market stall in Taraska," she said. Then, because she thought he might appreciate it, added, "It was all I could to to stop myself buying a longsword."
He cocked his head and considered her seriously for a moment. "You'd never be efficient with a full size longsword at your height, even if you could lift it," he said. "But if you ever need a weapon like that, we can easily scale one for you. Anyway, you're generally well equipped – do you have spikes, too?"
"No spikes."
"Well, then. We'll make you some spikes, and a curved blade, and a little hunting knife to complement your set. If you leave one of yours here, we can match them up."
"Oh, thank you." She picked up her dagger, stiletto, and one of the throwing knives, leaving the other on the bench. "And I was wondering, if it's not too cheeky – I'd quite like a double-ended throwing spike to play with."
"Really?" He looked genuinely shocked.
"You did ask about special requests." She looked at him with wide eyes and gave her sweetest smile; perhaps being a woman had some advantages after all.
"Well, yes, but you've already mastered a far more subtle method." He lifted her throwing knife and held it so the sapphires sparkled in the light of the furnaces. "Why would you want a weapon so lacking in artistry?"
She thought back to some of the year's tougher fights – particularly aboard the Canny Rose, where the boat's pitching had defeated her aim. "Sometimes, there isn't that much time for artistry."
His face betrayed his curiosity, but he nodded. "Alright, then. Now, let's get a measure of you."
She stepped onto the board so that he could draw her feet – the outline fitted completely within that of Mikhail's boots – and then he handed her the measuring rod. She was alarmed to find that, holding it naturally, her fingers didn't reach the first notch – but Harold just smiled, made a couple of new notches, and noted the position of her fingers against them.
He turned next to measuring Daniel and Sebastien's hands and feet, and was just finishing his notes as Jorge, Fred and Charles arrived at the door.
"We should go," Daniel said. "We have been here quite long enough."
"Thanks again," Eleanor said as they left.
"It must be time for lunch," Daniel continued once they were outside. "If we are quick, we could miss the Venncastle set completely."
"You'll have to get used to them," Sebastien said. "They're not going anywhere."
"I do not have to like them." Daniel slammed open the door to the school's accommodation building, and stomped his way up the stairs. Sebastien, Eleanor and Mikhail followed in amused silence, secretly wondering if there was any real reason for his venom.
After they'd enjoyed a substantial lunch, Sebastien suggested they could spend the rest of the afternoon doing a little sparring practice.
Mikhail looked out of the window. "It's raining – we could use the hall for a bit."
"There is more space outside," Daniel said. "A little rain does not hurt."
Eleanor's eyes narrowed. "Are you still just trying to avoid Fred and Jorge? I don't see what you've got against them."
"No, you would not."
He turned and strode out into the rain, leaving Eleanor, Sebastien and Mikhail to exchange exasperated glances and then, because there was no way he could do effective combat practice on his own, to follow after him.
They'd hardly begun when Eleanor was summoned; the messenger was a young man who, it turned out, was another of Venncastle's ex-students who'd graduated from the academy the year before. They chatted aimlessly as they walked through the corridors; Eleanor thought it might be rude to express her surprise at the number of Venncastle's students who seemed to find the academy, but she couldn't help wondering how they managed to be inherently better than other schools at producing this particular type of student. The idea went against every principle of the Imperial schooling system – but maybe it was simply, as Jorge had noted, that they weren't afraid to guide their boys in the right direction.
The young man steered Eleanor through a couple of different corridors, knocked sharply on a smart oak door, and then left her alone to wait.
"Come!" a voice barked from inside.
She pushed the door cautiously and took two light steps into the room. It was a large, empty-feeling room with high vaulted ceilings and its stone walls lined with tapestries. One long sofa and a low table was all the furniture there was, though a couple of target boards and a practice dummy in one corner, and a trapeze and ropes attached to the ceiling beams, suggested that the room's expanse of space was sometimes used for more interesting things. She clicked the door closed behind her.
A moment later, Laban emerged from a connecting door. "Welcome to my humble home," he said with a gentle smile.
"So this is where you live, is it, when you're not camping in a cave in the provinces?" After the way he'd ignored her yesterday, she needed to force him to acknowledge their shared history however she could.
"Something like that. Come, sit down. I've made tea."
She perched at one end of the sofa, and he handed her a mug of steaming tea. The familiar scent of the ironwort brew reminded her of home; she reached for the pot of honey to add a little sweetness, knowing the drink would comfort her just as it always had as a child.
"Are you going to tell me what all this is about?" she asked as she swirled honey into her tea.
"Well, officially I've been checking out your story, which of course is all in order." He gave a conspiratorial wink as he sat alongside her. "Really, I've been wondering how in all the Empire you ended up getting so lost."
"But none of it makes any sense!" As soon as she let herself start, the whole of her confusion flooded out in one breathless tirade. "First they say no-one was expecting me, then I get hauled up before the council just for having those bangles – and then I know I'm in the right place because you're there, but something stops you telling them it's okay, and you just act like you don't even know me! What's going on?!"
"Ahhh." He took a slow mouthful of his tea. "The thing is, you're female."
"I don't understand."
"There's long been some, ahh, disagreement" – he enunciated the word carefully – "in the council about whether we should start to admit women. Some of us believe the current stance is outdated and frankly silly, but there are others who feel just as strongly that a woman could never do this. I'm afraid it's your job to prove the abilities of your sex, but it would never work if they thought you had help."
"You tricked me!" She could feel indignant fury rising in her chest. She'd been ready to forgive yesterday's betrayal only because of the fear she'd seen in his eyes, but if he was playing games – with her, with everyone – then she wasn't about to let it go.
"I did nothing of the sort. I trained you, that's all. You had to make your own decision, as do all our students."
She glared at him. "You knew what I'd do – what you wanted me to do. And you must've known exactly how they'd take it. And what about the other girl? Was she another experiment? Have there been others? Are you just playing with our lives until someone succeeds?"
"To the best of my knowledge, that young lady made the attempt without encouragement. She was unlucky that some of the young men who came up the same year were rather, umm, over-enthusiastic."
"How did you know that wouldn't happen to me?"
"You could have handled it. Everything was under control – but I couldn't have predicted yesterday's little bangle incident. How did that happen, Eleanor?"
She sipped at her rapidly-cooling tea. His chiding tone made her feel thirteen again, even though he was the one in the wrong this time. "Do I really have to tell the whole story again?"
"You told far from the whole story yesterday. If you didn't fall into the code tower trap along with the rest of our postulants, how did
you end up in Taraska La'on?"
She gave a quick account of how she'd caught a chill walking from Port Just to Arche, and how the couple who'd taken her in and tended her fever had offered her the chance to join their smuggling operation in exchange for their continued protection. She skipped over the details of their trip, except to mention the call at Dashfort, and went on to explain how a couple of the crew had spotted a quick profit to be made by selling her to the Tarasanka authorities.
"What did they want with you?"
"Oh, that's where it gets complicated. The harbour master in Port Just – you knew him, right?"
"Myran? I know him, more's the pity."
"He caught me picking pockets in the Port. Just enough so I could eat!" she added hurriedly when she saw the hard look in his eye. "Anyway, I panicked and pulled a knife on him, and somehow he recognised it as your knife. I ran for it, and he put about rumours that there was a red-haired assassin girl in the area."
"Curse that meddler," Laban muttered. "He never could stand being bettered."
"So I gathered," she said, but she neglected to mention her later encounter with Myran in Dashfort. It would only complicate matters. "Anyway, an Imperial assassin apparently fetches a good price over there. I was locked up for months."
"Which is how you came to link up with a Venncastle lad and escape with all those bangles?"
She nodded and swallowed the last mouthful of her tea, preferring not to say more than she had to about her time under torture – the memories still haunted her nightmares but she hoped she'd never have to talk about what she'd been through. Again she wished Raf was here to understand how she felt, and again the feelings of guilt washed over her.
"Besides, you don't work for the Empire, and you're not an assassin," Laban said, interrupting her thoughts.
"That's what Andreas said. I didn't really understand it."
"You will."
She looked questioningly at him, hoping he might offer some further explanation but he just poured himself another cup of tea and offered the pot to her.
"And why me, anyway?"
He gave a short laugh. "It's all questions, isn't it? You'll have to learn some patience."
She bit back a sharp retort, and just asked, "But everything's okay with the council now?"
"Oh, yes, for now. But they'll be watching you."
She didn't like the ominous tone in his voice, but she didn't know what to say. He'd brought her into this, it was his responsibility and yet if she ever tried to claim his protection she could see now that he'd set it up perfectly to make sure he could deny everything. The only time she could've called him out was before the council yesterday; she'd trusted him at that critical moment and that chance had now gone forever.
"More tea?" he asked casually.
She shook her head and got to her feet.
"Stay for another cup," he insisted. "We've a lot of catching up to do, and I'm still not sure you've told me the whole story of what you've been doing this last year."
"I've told you quite enough," she said shortly. "And you've certainly given me plenty to think about."
"Have patience," he said. "You'll come to understand in time."
She turned on her heel and strode towards the door.
"Drop round any time you feel like a practice session," he called after her, his tone still irritatingly casual.
"Drop round any time you feel like acknowledging me," she muttered crossly to herself as she closed the door behind her.
Rebellion (Chronicles of Charanthe #1) Page 17
